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I’ve mostly ignored the pick-up community. On this blog, obviously, but also in my life.

1 Better a person than a method

The main thing I know about encouraging a woman to want to fuck me is to talk to women I fancy and think are interesting, so that I’m enjoying myself whatever happens. That way, though I hope she’ll want to take me to her bed, or flop into mine, I can be relaxed about it. I try to be funny and clever, and let her talk what I probably think is most of the time. (Which means that she probably does about half the talking.)

At some stage there’s a pause, and a moment, and then we look at each other, and we might decide that it’d be a good idea to kiss. Or else not. But if the pause ends in kisses or a held hand or a held thigh, then more physical stuff is likely to happen, after which we take it outside. And then we take it home, hers or mine.

That’s how most sex has happened to me, anyway. But it isn’t the PUA (pick-up artist) way.

Of course, it’s fine that the PUA approach doesn’t suit me. My approach is my approach because it’s what works reasonably well for me. I’m better at talking than anything else, so I stick with what I’m best at.

I’ve seen guys impress and attract women on the dance floor, where it’s damn near impossible to say a word. So I know that that works. It just doesn’t work for me. People don’t actually see me dance and run away in horror, but that’s all you can say. No-one has ever seen me dance, and, as a consequence, wanted to fuck me.

So don’t go for formulas. Keep the sun out of your eyes and be yourselves, that’s the spirit*.

2 PUA thinking, “negging” and so on

But there’s more wrong with the PUA mind-set than just the fact that it doesn’t suit me.

PUA guru Mystery. He’s wearing a ski hat with sunnies, which is his idea of “peacocking”. I thought it was pilot headgear at first, which was more interesting. I’ve got an old-fashioned pilot’s hat and goggles thing that I sometimes wear to parties, so I do peacock. Wouldn’t wear the Biggles gear to a bar, though. Not in the mountains, hey?

Take the “neg” thing, where the PUA says something to the woman that sounds like a compliment, but also undercuts her. Like, oh, “Like your hair colour. Are the roots meant to be showing?” Or, “That’s a great dress. And brave of you to wear it.” Or some such.

The idea is that attractive women get compliments all the time, and handle them complacently, reading them as, “please pay attention to me, you goddess.” So they ignore those approaches.

A neg is supposed to be more interesting than a straight compliment, and because it includes an element of put-down, it’s supposed to make the woman feel that she needs to work for the respect of the man who negged her.

So it’s manipulative, and that’s creepy. It also seems pointlessly unkind. Why would you say something calculated to make the person you’re with feel slightly worse? Especially if you actually fancy that woman?

Even a single night in bed is a relationship. It seems odd to want to start any sort of relationship based on putting the other person down.

If you use negs, and other “techniques”, you turn yourself into a method and not a person. I might get sex from a method but I wouldn’t get the affirmation and, oh fuck it, the ego boost I get when someone meets me and decides she wants to fuck my lights out.

Worse, it’s a sign of contempt. You could only bring yourself to neg someone if you think they’re dumb enough not to notice, and unassertive enough to feel a little worse about themselves rather than realising that you’re a toxic fool who should be avoided.

So the put-down isn’t the specific content of the neg, but the fact that you even chose to try one.

So that’s one part of my lack of interest in PUA and “game”..

There’s also the talk about alpha and beta males you get on PUA boards and sites.

I’m not a biologist or animal psychologist, but I’m interested in n how ethics works across species. Also, in some parts of Africa and Asia, when you get out of your vehicle it can be handy to know about the likely behaviour of pack or herd animals that can kill you.

I’m snob enough not to want to have much to with people who write ignorant bollocks about how animal heirarchies work. Mostly they’ve only read some dated stuff about wolves, and about non-human primates, and tried to apply it to humans. This is doubly stupid: first, their model is wrong about every animal species I know something about.

For example, most alpha males aren’t all that aggressive, and they spend a lot of time making sure everyone else in the troupe or pack is fed. And alpha males generally don’t keep their position unless the alpha females support them. They don’t control who gets the sex in their group, because the females fuck who they want to. The females initiate a lot of the sex, and it seems that they like youth and good looks more than alpha status. Alpha males aren’t the aggressive ones, and they aren’t the studs: basically, they’re politicians.

Second, you can’t even apply models from chimps to bonobos, let alone from wolves or chimps to humans. It’s just embarrassingly stupid.

Also, the homo sapiens guys who think of themselves as alpha males, as they understand the term, tend to strut about doing a lot of body language and oration. And that’s just tedious.

3 The bdsm link

So what’s this got to do with bdsm? Well, the PUA message seems to be getting more openly nasty as time goes on. There’s an increasing emphasis and acceptance of non-consensual scenarios.

For example, there’s the PUA “teacher” Julien Blanc who recommended that guys just go up to women, grab their heads and push them down towards the guy’s crotch. He showed footage of himself doing just that, in Japan. He got away with it, because he’s a gaijin, so the girls laughed because they were shocked and embarrassed about how weird and offensive he was being.

In Japan, laughter doesn’t necessarily mean the person laughing is having fun, or that they are enjoying you being around. Blanc was too stupid and arrogant to bother knowing anything about Japanese culture. It’s a pity no-one called a cop or kneed him in the bollocks: he couldn’t claim he didn’t understand that.

Blanc also recommends that men wear down women’s “bitch shield” (which seems to mean reluctance to spend time with Blanc or his “students”) by commanding them to “get down on your knees, call me Master, and BEG ME to kiss you.”

The use of bdsm tone and terms is becoming more common. There’s another PUA guy (not linking to him) whose training includes telling guys with poor social skills that many women will obey commands, and “secretly like to be commanded”.

This worries me because that’s actually true about many women, and not just women who identify as “submissive”. I’m not going to argue about why that is. Of course it’s partly cultural, and to some extent it’s also probably innate and part of our primate, even mammal, heritage. Dominance and confidence are survival traits, and they’re sexy. But there’s a reason why bdsm has so many caveats about consent, in particular informed consent.

If they want to be any good at domming, doms have to learn a lot about power and how to exercise it. And also how to not exercise dominance and power. At work, for example, I keep a very firm lid on all dom signs: body language, tone of voice and so on. As much as I can manage I’m mild-mannered Clark Kent, very polite and unassuming. In fact, I’m like that everywhere, except in the company of a submissive woman who knows who she is and who I am, and who has explicitly given me her consent.

But it is true that a man can give a woman (some women) small commands, and make the orders bigger by degrees. He can also make the orders more and more explicitly sexual, after that third glass, and he’ll probably get away with it. He may get her undressed and himself on her body. He may get a fuck out of it.

It’s just … Afterwards, she may be happy with that and she may not be. She probably wasn’t raped, in a legal sense, but she has good reason to feel that she was conned and manipulated. It’s rape-ish. Not necessarily a prosecutable crime, but certainly bad behaviour.

So my problem is that some bdsm skills, about mind-fucking and establishing dominance and submission, seem to be seeping into PUA teaching. But without the ethics.

The Jian Ghomeshi case, where Ghomeshi assaulted several women quite seriously, and then claimed he was doing consensual bdsm with them, was an early warning. Promoting behaviour control methods from bdsm, without including bdsm’s ethical rules – especially about informed consent – is dangerous and irresponsible. I don’t see it leading anywhere good.

* “Keep the sun out of your eyes and be yourselves” is said by the bad guy in Cherry 2000, whose dialogue is a mix of feelgood psychobabble and psycho-killer babble. I’m going to watch Cherry 2000 again soon. It’s probably terrible, but I’m curious to see if I’m still in lust with Melanie Griffith. There was something about her sullen face and squeaky little voice that deeply appealed to the schoolboy Jaime Mortimer. Phwoarr, I thought. Hope I still do.

Raylene looked back, considered me over her shoulder for a second, and laughed. “Well, if you say it’s what I meant, then it must be. If you say so. And, well, I suppose I can’t really complain that you’re bossy, can I? Sir.”

She said, “Um…” and turned around to face me, and wriggled her way into an embrace, placing my arms around her. She had her hands on my chest, for a few seconds, like a little woman saying “you brute!” in an old movie, then put her arms around me. We stood together and swayed.

Time passed. It was Raylene who said, “You were saying something. Something that I needed to do.”

“Yeah.” She’d missed a Sir. I thought, Fuck it, who cares, and let it go.

It’s odd how what’s important changes, moment by moment. Calling me sir would be important again soon enough. I kissed her again, and put my hands on her arse, enjoying the warmth of that stripe, still bold and hot, though obviously not painful any more. She smiled. She liked the touch.

“Um. Sir?”

“Nn?”

“Do you have condoms? I should, but …”

“Yeah, I have. Dib dib dib.”

“Dib dib dib? You were a boy scout?”

“About half an hour. Scouting and I went our separate ways. Tell you about it some other time. I still like starting fires and tying knots though. And condoms come under the Be Prepared rule.”

“Well, good for Baden-Powell.”

I thought there were three in my wallet. I usually thought that was a generous supply. At the moment I worried we might be skimpily provided. “Yeah. Enough to be going on with. You, pretty love, you were going to turn around.”

Raylene turned for me. But the tension was gone and this was mock-obedience. I liked her playfulness, but at that moment it was in the way. It had to go. I didn’t want her to feel playful for long.

I put my hand, my hand holding the razor strop, on her left buttock, and squeezed her hard. Then I slapped her firmly. It wouldn’t hurt, but I wanted her to remember the strop was there.

“And spread your legs. Wider.” That ‘wider’ was spoken in a gritted-teeth voice, the voice that promised razor strops.

“And you’re going to bend forward and put your head on that step. You have to sort of lunge forward. I’m afraid that I like the idea of you not being able to get up.”

I’d decided what we were going to do next. And how we were going to do it.

“Good girl. I want you to bend over now, Raylene. And put your head on that step.” I pointed.

“Sir?”

“That step. The fifth one up. You bend at the waist, and you lean forward. And you rest your head on that step.”

Raylene glanced, as if furtively, at the razor strop in my hand. It was obvious what this posture would lead to. “Oh, I see. Jaime, I dunno about this. You’re really going to ..?”

By then I’d stopped worrying when Raylene made one of those little protests. They weren’t exactly insincere, but they were hesitations rather than refusals. They were part of her process for getting used to challenging ideas. So I said, “Of course I am.”

“Yeah, oh my god all right.”

“Raylene . . .”

“I mean, yeah oh my god all right: sir.”

“Yes, love, that’s exactly what you meant. So, do you think you’ll get another stroke for that?”

“Yes sir!”

“You’re right.” I smacked her bottom with the strop, more affectionately than hard. “Now. Because I told you to. Bend over.”

Raylene and I both wanted to get to her bed, or maybe just her bedroom carpet, and fuck like snakes. But Raylene had an idea that she’d like to be brutalised before being fucked, and I’d certainly like to be that brute. So though her bedroom door was in sight, we’d be staying on the stairs, for a while.

I took the bundle of Raylene’s clothes, and boosted it like a basketball in the direction of her bedroom door. The bundle hit the door a little below the handle, pushing it slightly open, and dropped to the floor, just inside.

Raylene was worried about her moment of resistance just before I’d taken her bundle of clothes away. She was new to this sort of thing, but she knew that she’d just been defiant, and that was probably going to have consequences. Her voice was small. “Sir? Am I in -? Are you going to -? Um?”

Actually I hadn’t minded her defiance. Defiance can give a dom a reason to step up the pressure on the submissive, and increase the sexual tension. While serious defiance is valuable feedback: it means that there’s something wrong that needs attention.

In this specific case I thought it was perfectly understandable. Raylene’s bundle of clothes had become a sort of security blanket for her. While so many strange things were happening, of course she’d resist having it taken away.

But she’d have been disappointed if I’d been reasonable. There was a script, and I was prepared to stick with it. I said, “Yes, you’re in a little bit of trouble. Not too much. But you don’t resist me. Ever. You don’t defy me. You need to learn that. So, yes, of course I’m going to punish you.”

Raylene nodded: in this new world, these things would have to be. Then she straightened up, put her hands on her buttocks, above that fresh stripe, and stretched. The effect on her breasts was spectacular.

It seemed that Raylene was reached, a few seconds later, by another wave of heat from that searing razor strop stroke across her arse. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth, savouring the pain. Then she sighed. “Oh fuck, Jaime, that really huuurts.”

She said this languorously, not displeased with the sensation. And a second later, remembering, “Sir.”

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I also wondered if I’d been unreasonable. I’d felt that it was right to punish Raylene, and I’d acted on it. But being called sir wasn’t usually something I insisted on. I supposed it was that I’d given that order, and then warned her. She’d given me authority, and so she had to take it seriously.

I said, “That’s better, girl.” I leaned forward, over her shoulder so she could see my face. “And look, you won’t always have to call me sir. Not with everything you ever say. But for now it’s good practice, and I’ll give you double if you miss again.”

“Two … of those? Um sir.”

“Yes. And if I have to remind you again after that… Well, you do the math.”

I watched her thinking, and her face fall a little, when she imagined getting four strokes like the stinger she’d just had. “I see. Sir. Oh god.”

“When I tell you to do something, I want you to do as you’re told. I think you’ll remember now. Don’t you?”

“Oh god, yes sir.”

I kissed her, and we paid attention to nothing but the kiss for a minute or so. When we separated I had my hand, the one holding the strop, resting on her ass, and she was smiling.

I said, “This is all new, love, and I know you’re trying to be good. I’m going to help you learn to do as you’re told. Sometimes that’ll hurt. But you’ll learn.”

Raylene nodded. I suspected that this was comedy, and that we both thought so. But we were prepared to be solemn about it. “I understand that, sir. I am trying, sir.”

So I’d convinced her, at least, that I was being reasonable. Perhaps I was. “You’re a good girl, love, and I do know it. Now give me your clothes.”

Raylene was still holding her jeans, panties and jersey, all she had been wearing, in a tight bundle against her breasts. It had become her security.

She looked at my face, but I wasn’t smiling at her. The tension felt good, and I didn’t want to dissipate it.

I took the ball of clothes in my hands, but Raylene resisted, holding them back. Then she realised what she was doing. She took her hands away as if the bundle had turned into a hot brick.

Raylene’s eyes were wide open, but I doubt she was looking at anything in particular. But I was still watching the band left by the razor strop declaring itself across the lower slopes of Raylene’s bottom, a clearly defined stripe, darkly pink, about two inches wide. In a few more seconds the pink had brightened to fiery red, and the skin was raising itself a little where the edges of the strop had impacted.

The pain, like the colour, was still becoming deeper and brighter. Raylene had frozen for those seconds, shocked to find herself punished, and then by the sheer ruthless pain left in the razor strop’s wake. At last she gasped for breath, then another, then another.

Then she found her voice. “Rii! Ooooah! Oh fuck! Jesus fuck!”

Which, I suppose, is the sort of thing you might as well say, under those circumstances.

I put the hand that held the razor strop on Raylene’s hip, to let her feel comfort and authority. I brushed the fingers of my other hand gently down her bottom, to explore that broad welt. I could have found it with my eyes closed.

Raylene’s skin was cool above the mark, then suddenly hot at the thin, raised horizontal line along the top of that vivid stripe. Below that were two inches of heated flesh. Raylene held her breath again, concentrating on the feel of my fingers, and fearful that I might add further punishment. Her skin glowed heat against my fingertips. At the stripe’s lower edge there was another thin raised line.

I explored lower, stroking the soft, intimately curved flesh below the stripe, slipping my fingers between her buttocks to press lightly against her anus, and then the delicate skin beyond. Raylene shivered at that touch.

She said nothing. I smacked the undercurve of her bottom lightly, then again. There she was soft, and cool, and still unwhipped. She wouldn’t stay unwhipped for much longer, I thought. I was going to make her glow from the crown of her buttocks to the top two or three inches of her thighs. And then I’d enjoy that heat while I fucked her from behind.

Raylene froze again when I patted her, though I’d meant the pats fondly and reassuringly. Perhaps reassurance wasn’t what she needed. She had urgencies to deal with: her pain and the knowledge that since she’d just been punished so firmly, she must therefore have done wrong.

Raylene nodded, indicating the further door with her head. “My room’s at the end of the corridor. You’ll have to excuse the mess a bit. I wasn’t expecting … Oh well.”

And that – her failure to say “Sir” after so many reminders – is how these things get decided. Just a few moments earlier I’d thought that I couldn’t wait and I was going to fuck her on the stairs, here and now. The razor strop experience could come later. But we’d got to the stage that we both understood that Raylene was supposed to do as she was told, and I felt genuine indignation when she didn’t. So I didn’t even think or hesitate before I lifted the razor strop and swung it.

The leather lashed across her lower buttocks, the end wrapping round and biting into her right hip. The sound of that impact filled the corridor. It seemed to fill the house. Silence echoed, afterwards. I’d struck her much harder than I would have, if I’d thought for even a second.

But I wasn’t shocked by that; the force that had made me punish her still drove me. “Raylene, you’ve been told. What do you call me?” I used the command voice. That also seemed quite loud.

Raylene’s eyes were wide, as this sudden event and the pain it had brought continued to sink in. The stripe was already rising and prettily red. She clutched her bundle of clothes tight against her breasts. Her mouth opened, silently. She hadn’t cried out.

A lot of art directors, glamour photographers and such, assume that if a woman is dressed to be sexy, then she must be wearing a garter belt, which holds up the suspenders that hold up her stockings.

There must have been a time, maybe no later than the 1950s, when women wore that stuff for practical reasons, like having their stockings stay up. Because bare legs or jeans were “common”, and pantihose hadn’t happened yet.

With occasional help from the wind, or bicycles and such, men would sometimes get glimpses of thigh with the suspender stripe. That was definitely something they liked. So suspenders became a turn-on.

When a man got lucky and undressed the woman, there’d be this yummy bit of bare thigh between the lower edge of her knickers and the stocking tops, with the suspenders providing a sort of racing stripe down the thigh.

I can see why it appealed to men of that generation.

But to me it means very little. It’s like a historical re-enactment of something I never experienced and that doesn’t mean much to me. When a woman dresses up for me in suspenders and the rest of it, I know she’s trying to look sexy, and that is the thing that’s sexy. Not the suspender belt.

Very silly.

You see the odd schoolgirl spanking photo shoot in which the “schoolgirl” wears suspenders. To me it just looks incongruous and kind of silly, in a very unsexy way.

The girls I fancied as a boy, and the women I fancy now, generally wear cotton knickers with jeans or a skirt, and shoes’n’socks. So that’s my experience, and what I encountered once I had the social skills to start unwrapping women’s clothes.

One girlfriend of mine would wear a pair of cotton knickers with monkeys on them when she wanted to get spanked. It generally worked within ten seconds or so. (There’s probably a book in that: “How to train your dom”.)

This is the maiden all forlorn, whose tights are thoroughly tattered and torn.

If I do have a women’s underwear-related fetish, it’s probably laddered or torn pantihose, with a bit of skin showing through. That does give me an urge to take that nylon ladder or tear and rrrrrip it all the way until I can get at the woman inside.

That “if” was bullshit. Of course I have a women’s, um, smalls-related fetish, and that ripped tights thing is it. They go well with boots.

These thoughts were sparked off by a post by Girl on the Net, at: http://www.girlonthenet.com/2015/01/04/sexy-lingerie-versus-casual-sleepwear/#more-4048

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